


Time Moved Too Fast (You Played it Back)

by Nutella_enthusiast



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, Pining, Post-Graduation, Road Trips, Summer, brief description of panic attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 09:12:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14766749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nutella_enthusiast/pseuds/Nutella_enthusiast
Summary: They stop by a convenience store on the way out of town so Ransom can refill his gas tank and they can load up on the disgusting snacks that neither Holster, as an officially signed member of the NHL or Ransom, as a medical student, should ever even consider putting in their bodies. After that it’s less than five minutes to the highway, and they roll down the windows and blast Nicki Minaj, and Holster tries to rap along to Super Bass, and Ransom can’t stop laughing. He’s sure that if there’s a heaven, this is what it would feel like.Ransom and Holster spend their last summer together on the road. "Last" has never felt more like a four letter word.





	Time Moved Too Fast (You Played it Back)

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. Uh. This has been a journey (no pun intended). I started work on this fic two and a half years ago, back when I was fresh into the fandom and still into taylor swift and still actually regularly writing fanfiction. Now I'm here, barely in the fandom at all, only writing fic when inspiration strikes (read: once every three-four months for two hours at a time)  
> But it's done?? and I'm a little terrified to put it out into the world, honestly, it's been such a THING for me for so long that i was sure I'd probably never finish it.  
> a huge thank you to my betas! flawlessblowjob, wewereborninthewronguniverse, lancesexual, and Kim, who's url I'll put as soon as I know which one she wants me to use  
> there's a road trip map [here](https://roadtrippers.com/map?a2=p!vp,t!21299338&lat=34.74823422122337&lng=-105.77029198997735&utm_campaign=trip&utm_medium=share&utm_source=copy&z=3.977527734565176) if you want to follow along with their journey and i made a graphic [here](http://holtzyrans.tumblr.com/post/139884636272/and-you-knew-what-it-was-he-is-in-love-they). Maybe one day if i ever get inspired again i'll make a playlist to go with it.  
> german translations at the end

They graduate on the first Saturday of June. The guest speaker drones on about this being the first day of the rest of their lives, but no one’s really listening; It’s sunny and beautiful, and Jack and Shitty are there, and the team just got Samwell its first ever national title for hockey. Ransom knows, logically, as they all throw their hats into the air, as Shitty kisses Lardo and Jack and Bitty hug and Holster places one hand on his shoulder and squeezes, that this is as perfect as it possibly could be. They all go out to dinner afterwards, even Johnson, who had apparently come back to see the resolution of Jack and Bitty’s “will-they-or-won’t-they gay boy seeks popular jock” trope. 

Ransom sits as far from Johnson as he can. That guy always made him kind of uncomfortable. 

They spend almost four hours at the restaurant, talking and laughing and drinking more than is probably wise considering four of them are leaving first thing in the morning. Ransom stays quiet mostly, just listening and taking everything in and trying not to think about the fact that this is probably the last time he’ll have this. He makes eye contact with Holster over the dessert that they’ve all been pretending to eat for the last hour that no one’s really sure why they ordered, because there are at least six pies waiting for them back at the Haus, and he feels the familiar warmth in his chest that he feels every time Holster looks at him. Ransom can tell that Holster has the same strange, lost feeling in the pit of the stomach that Ransom’s been feeling all day (all week, all month, all year), but Holster smiles at him, soft and comforting and familiar, and Ransom can’t help but smile back. 

The waitress comes over soon after that and tells them, bright smile plastered on her face, that unfortunately, she’s going to have to ask them to leave if they aren’t planning on ordering anything else, because there are other people waiting for their table. They clear out quickly, and Ransom stays at the back of the group when they start the walk back to the Haus, hands shoved deep in his pockets, the thin sleeves of his dress shirt doing little to keep out the bite of the night air around him. 

Holster falls in step beside him almost immediately, bumping Ransom’s shoulder gently with his own. “Hey,” he says quietly, the same soft smile on his face as before. 

“Hey,” says Ransom, just as quietly. There’s a lump in his throat and his eyes feel hot, and he really hopes he doesn’t start crying on the path outside the history department. 

“Fuckin’ weird, huh?” says Holster, and Ransom snorts. 

“No kidding.” 

“We’re like. Real adults now.” 

“No,” groans Ransom. 

“Gonna have to pay taxes and buy an SUV probably.” 

“ _No_ ,” groans Ransom again, but he’s grinning, and he’s not even surprised that Holster knew exactly what to say to make him feel better. 

Holster grins too, and they walk in comfortable silence for a few minutes, listening to Chowder trying to convince Dex to give him a piggyback ride at an even louder volume than usual. Bitty is leaning heavily on Jack, Shitty is carrying Lardo, and Ransom’s pretty sure that, for once, he and Holster have had the least to drink. 

“Everything’s going to change now, isn’t it?” asks Ransom quietly, watching as Lardo leans down to whisper something in Shitty’s ear. 

Holster slings his arm around Ransom’s shoulder, and Ransom leans into the touch without even thinking, wrapping his own arm around Holster’s waist. 

“That doesn’t have to be a bad thing,” says Holster. Ransom really wishes he believed him. 

*** 

Ransom, for once, actually managed to convince Holster to plan ahead, so when they wake up the next morning in the almost empty attic, they don’t really have an excuse to put off leaving. They eat breakfast with the boys and Lardo, give their keys to Dex and Nursey, accept the carefully packed lunch that a teary eyed Bitty shoves at them, and are ready to leave by noon. Ransom’s stuff has all been shipped already or loaded into the back of his car, and Holster’s is being picked up later that day. They’re taking almost two months for their road trip; their itinerary that Ransom is sure they’ll have abandoned within a week has them arriving in Palo Alto on August third, giving Ransom enough time to get used to California before his classes start, and Holster enough time to fly back to Providence and get settled in by mid August. 

“You ready to go?” asks Holster, nervous anticipation clear in his eyes. Ransom bites his lip and nods, and then Shitty is throwing himself at Holster, shouting about how they’re just tiny babies, and not ready to be alone in the world, and Holster is grumbling good naturedly about how he’s older than Shitty, but hugging him back anyways. Shitty hugs Ransom next, and if Ransom holds on a little longer and tighter than he needs to, neither of them say anything. 

Then Holster’s climbing in the passenger seat and shouting at Ransom to “Hurry the fuck up, damn!” and Ransom huffs out a laugh, pats Shitty on the back, waves at the rest of the guys, and slides into the driver’s seat, pulling his keys out of his pocket. 

“Let’s do this,” he says with a grin. 

This isn’t an ending, he tells himself for what feels like the millionth time. It’s just the start of something new. 

*** 

They stop by a convenience store on the way out of town so Ransom can refill his gas tank and they can load up on the disgusting snacks that neither Holster, as an officially signed member of the NHL or Ransom, as a medical student, should ever even consider putting in their bodies. After that it’s less than five minutes to the highway, and they roll down the windows and blast Nicki Minaj, and Holster tries to rap along to Super Bass, and Ransom can’t stop laughing. He’s sure that if there’s a heaven, this is what it would feel like. 

They pull over around three; there’s a small lake about twenty minutes south of the Massachusetts/Connecticut border with a big grassy field next to it, and they get out of the car on shaky legs, Ransom opening the back door to get the enormous lunch basket Bitty packed for them, balanced precariously between two boxes, and Holster disappears over the crest of a small hill, presumably to take a piss. 

Ransom opens the basket, laughing at the fact that Bitty had included a red and white checkered blanket with the food. He’s just spreading it out as Holster appears again, immediately breaking into a wide grin. 

“Fuckin’ Bitty,” he says, sitting down on the edge of the blanket, catching the bottle of hand sanitizer that Ransom tosses him and squirting it into his hands. “He doesn’t half ass anything, does he?” 

“No kidding,” says Ransom with a laugh, pulling out four sandwiches, a bag of apple slices, a container of what looks like some sort of pasta salad, and no less than a dozen mini pies, half honey peach and half blueberry crumble. Ransom’s lost count of the number of times he’s almost started crying in the last 48 hours, but this moment is definitely getting added to the list. 

“Sandwich?” Ransom pushes the basket towards Holster with a lump in his throat, stretching his legs out in front of him. The day is warm but not hot, he’s with his favorite person in the world, he graduated college, he helped lead his hockey team to its very first national championship, and Holster’s only made fun of his salmon shorts once today. The lump in his throat shrinks enough for him to chew his sandwich. 

“Did he remember your favorite too?” asks Holster with a grin, holding up his own pastrami on rye. 

Ransom laughs. “Of course he did, it’s Bitty.” 

They destroy everything but eight of the mini pies, which Holster declared as Ransom was reaching for his third were to be saved for later. He packed up the basket before Ransom could protest, setting it aside and flopping down across the blanket, letting his head rest on Ransom’s thigh. “Think we could just stay here for the next two months?” he asks, closing his eyes and flexing his calves, pointing his toes towards the lake, then back up at the sky. 

“You know I’d stay anywhere with you, bro,” says Ransom, messing up Holster’s hair. 

“Fuck off,” grumbles Holster, waving away Ransom’s hand without opening his eyes. 

Ransom laughs, laying back as well, folding his arms behind his head and staring up at the sky. “That cloud looks like a hockey stick,” he says, pointing even though he knew Holster couldn’t see him. “We should send a picture to Jack.” 

“You think he ever actually uses the snapchat Bitty made for him last year?” 

Ransom grins slowly, the food in his stomach and warm summer air making him comfortable and lethargic. “He always opens the close ups of his face that I take when we watch his games, but he never replies.” 

Holster sighs. “You’re gonna take awful close ups of me during all my games next year, aren’t you?” 

“Chyeah,” says Ransom, letting his eyes flutter closed, focusing on the warmth of Holster’s head on his thigh, the comforting sound of his breathing. “Obvi. You’re gonna be on TV bro, I can’t just _not._ ” 

“I’m gonna be on TV,” repeats Holster, sounding a little dazed. “Shit. Weird.” 

“My best friend’s gonna be a real celebrity,” says Ransom with a grin, running his fingers through Holster’s hair again, slow and gentle. This time, Holster makes no move to push him away, just hums gently. 

“You can pay your tuition selling my stuff,” he says thoughtfully. “I’m sure some of it ended up with yours.” 

Ransom huffs out an amused breath. “Genuine Adam Birkholtz boxers. Complete with frayed edges and a stain that’s hopefully just beer.” 

“Dude, gross,” exclaims Holster, shoving Ransom’s hand away with a laugh. 

“Hey, I’m not the one who stained them,” says Ransom, too tired to bother shoving Holster back. His limbs all feel heavy in the mid-afternoon sun. 

“I’ll have you know that my hypothetical boxers that ended up in your suitcase are completely clean.” 

Ransom grins but doesn’t say anything else, just lets the warmth of the sunlight and the comfort of Holster’s slow breathing flow over him. 

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when he opens his eyes again, it’s to a very pink cheeked Holster leaning over him, and the sun in a completely different spot in the sky. 

“Hey, wake up,” Holster is saying. Ransom blinks blearily up at him, squinting in confusion. Holster’s hair is still messy from where Ransom had ruffled it earlier, his glasses are crooked, and his cheeks and the tip of his nose are burned pink. The word "cute" pops into Ransom's head before he's awake enough to remind himself that that's not the kind of thing you're supposed to think about your best bro. 

“What?” Ransom manages to say, shoving Holster back before he can think too hard about what that means and forcing himself into a seated position. 

“It’s almost five, bro.” 

“Aw, fuck,” groans Ransom, rubbing one hand over his face, reaching up under his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Let’s just stay here tonight.” 

“Rans, we’re literally on the side of a highway. And my mom is going to worry.” 

Ransom sighs, rolling his head side to side to crack his neck and stretching his arms out in front of him. “Can’t believe we fell asleep. Probably should have gone home sooner last night, huh?” It hits him very suddenly that the Haus is no longer home, that it never will be again, and he can see by the look on his face that Holster is thinking along the same lines. They’re never going to study in the kitchen while Bitty blasts Beyonce and rolls out pie dough, or come home to find all the furniture pushed against the walls because Lardo had felt trapped painting in her tiny bedroom. Ransom might even almost miss being woken up at weird hours of the night by Chowder and Farmer having unnecessarily loud sex. Neither of them say anything. 

“I’m too tired to drive,” declares Ransom after a few moments of awkward silence. 

He can see the moment Holster gets an idea. His face lights up, his eyes widening and mouth dropping open, and Ransom may be too tired to drive, but he’s at least awake enough now that he should be able to push aside the words “fucking adorable.” 

He isn’t. 

“What?” he asks. The words keep repeating themselves in his head, over and over. Objectively speaking, he knows Holster is an attractive dude; he’s lived in the same room as him for the last three years, seen him naked more times than he can count, but usually he’s able to ignore the near constant stream of thoughts that remind him of it. 

“I know how you can wake up.” 

Holster’s pulling off his glasses and tugging his shirt up over his head so quickly that it takes Ransom a moment to process what exactly is happening. Even once he has, he’s still not sure he’s not imagining things. Maybe he’s still asleep. He’s just having a really strange, scarily realistic dream about his best friend stripping for him. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

Then Holster is getting to his feet, kicking off his socks and shoes and reaching for the button of his jeans. All Ransom can do is gape and try to figure out what’s going on because they’re on a picnic blanket on top of a hill on the side of a highway in the middle of fucking nowhere and his best friend is standing in front of him and shimmying out of his jeans. 

Ransom’s throat is very dry, but knowing Holster, there’s got to be some sort of weird explanation for this. Sure enough, then Holster’s running down the hill towards the lake, shouting “last one there has to drive!” 

Ransom stares after him for a second before finally pushing himself to his feet, throwing his own glasses and shirt next to Holster’s and racing down the hill after him, stumbling as he attempts to pull his shoes off while still moving. “Fucking- christ, Holtzy,” he chokes out, skidding to a stop at the side of the water and tugging off his shoes and socks properly. Holster, who’s standing a good ten feet away from him, the water reaching his mid thighs, just grins. 

“Loser.” 

Ransom scoffs and tugs down his shorts, stepping out of them and following Holster into the water. “Like I’d let you drive my car anyways - _fuck,_ that’s cold.” 

“Your car should be honored to let me drive it,” said Holster, taking a few steps backwards as Ransom continues to walk towards him. The bottom of the lake is soft mud, and it squishes up between Ransom’s toes. “ _I_ don’t drive like an old lady.”

“Knowing how to use the brakes does not mean I drive like an old lady.” 

Holster grins again and shrugs. “Whatever you say, man.” 

“Would an old lady do this?” asks Ransom, and he flings himself at Holster, tackling him into the water. 

Holster barely has time to yelp before Ransom pushes him under the water, but he reaches up, managing to grab Ransom and pull him under too. There are a few minutes of furious wrestling before Ransom finally manages to get Holster into a headlock. He doesn’t think about how much bare skin they have pressed together or the fact that they’re both wearing nothing but soaked boxers. _He doesn’t._ “Ready to apologize?” 

“Never,” spits out Holster, digging his fingers into Ransom’s sides where he knows he’s most ticklish. Ransom jerks away, and Holster manages to get out of his grip, taking a few steps away and splashing water at Ransom when he attempts to follow him. It quickly turns into an all out water war, and by the time they’ve finished, the sun is even further west and they’re both breathing heavily. 

“Tie?” asks Holster, running a hand through his hair, slicking it back out of his face. The water reaches just above the waistband of his boxers, and Ransom’s eyes are drawn to the sharp vee of his hip bones for a moment before he forces himself to look away. 

“Yeah, cool,” he says, holding out his fist, and Holster bumps their knuckles together with a grin. “We should probably get going, huh?” 

“Yeah, probably,” says Holster, turning at starting back towards the shore. There’s a drop of water sliding down his back, between his shoulder blades, and Ransom is suddenly very grateful for how cold the lake water is. Even so, he has to close his eyes and breathe deeply for a moment before following Holster out. 

“You coming?” asks Holster, turning back to look at Ransom. His wet boxers are clinging tightly to his skin, leaving very little to the imagination, but Ransom forces himself to ignore it. So he’s attracted to dudes. He’s known that for a while, it’s not like this is anything new. Sure, he’s usually a little better at pretending he’s not attracted to Holster specifically, but maybe he’s just having an off day. He’s got a box in the back of his mind, full of _no, not that, not him, don’t go there_ , that he’s spent the last four years building. What’s two more months? 

“Yeah, yeah, hold your horses, damn,” he says, following Holster out and picking up his pants and shoes. 

They take turns standing behind the car changing out of their wet boxers and pulling their clothes back on, and Ransom keeps his gaze fixed firmly ahead of him, even when Holster asks him to hand him his glasses. 

“Bro, I’m wearing pants,” says Holster with a laugh as Ransom reaches behind him to hold out Holster’s glasses. “Besides, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” 

That’s the problem, Ransom thinks. He knows Holster’s body as well as his own, knows about his messed up right knee, and the mole (it’s a _beauty mark,_ Rans, I’m _beautiful_ ) on his left hip bone, and the fact that one of his nipples is a little higher than the other, and he doesn’t know when he catalogued all of these things but the box in the back of his mind is running out of space, so he doesn’t turn around. 

“Your turn,” says Holster finally, and Ransom switches places with him, changing as fast as he can, keeping his back to Holster the whole time. 

“You okay, bro?” asks Holster once Ransom has changed and silently slid into the driver’s seat. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” asks Ransom with a laugh that sounds fake, even to his own ears. 

Holster reaches over and puts his hand over Ransom’s on the gear shift, squeezing it gently before pulling away. When Ransom looks at him, there’s a sad smile on his face and a longing in his eyes that Ransom can’t let himself think about right now. He smiles back and holds the aux cord out to Holster before starting the engine. 

By the time they’re back on the highway, the car is filled with the sound of Fall Out Boy, and Ransom can almost pretend that nothing’s changing between them. 

*** 

“I spy something black,” says Holster, once the album’s over. 

“Is it me?” 

Holster snorts. “Nah, dude.” 

“Is it the black car ahead of us?” 

Holster gasps. “How did you know?” 

Ransom turns to look at Holster. “We’re literally surrounded by corn, there’s probably nothing else black for miles.” 

“Oh,” says Holster. “Okay, good point.” 

*** 

They pull over again around seven to eat another mini pie each and call Holster’s mom, letting her know they’ll be a few hours later than they expected. They play a very spirited game of Fuck, Marry, Kill, until Holster gets so offended by Ransom choosing to kill Bea Arthur over Rue McClanahan that they have to stop. By the time they pull into Holster’s childhood home, it’s just after eleven, Ransom’s been yawning for the last hour, and Holster’s threatened no less than ten times to take over driving. The moment the car’s stopped, Holster is flinging himself out into the lawn, shouting about how he was _sure_ he was going to die, and just because Ransom was his life partner it didn’t mean that Holster was ready to die with him just yet. Ransom follows slowly, laughing at Holster as he stretches out his legs. 

“Adam, for heaven’s sake, stop yelling,” calls a voice from the porch, and Ransom and Holster both turn to look at Holster’s mom. She’s tall, almost six feet probably, with long legs, broad shoulders and platinum blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. Ransom is struck, not for the first time how much she looks like Holster. The only big difference is that where Holster’s eyes are light blue, Amelia’s are a warm, golden brown. 

“Mama!” shouts Holster, running up to the porch, hugging his mother tightly. As tall as Amelia is, the top of her head only reaches Holster’s jawline. Ransom smiles to himself, turning to get their bags out of the trunk to give Holster and his mother a moment. 

“You’re not going to make Justin carry all those by himself, are you?” asks Amelia seconds later though, and Ransom glances over to see her pushing Holster away with a smile and nodding towards the car. 

“We’re only staying for one night,” says Holster with a laugh, but he pulls away from his mother and walks back to the car to help Ransom pull their bags out of the backseat. 

“Should we bring in the mini pies?” asks Ransom, lowering his voice. Holster shoots him the most horrified look he thinks he’s ever seen. 

“Are you kidding, man?” he asks. “My sisters would destroy those.” 

“I feel like I should have a gift for them or-” 

“Hey, it’s not like we’re dating or anything,” says Holster with a laugh. “And besides, my mom already loves you. Right, Mama?” He raises his voice, slinging his bag over his shoulder and heading back to the porch, where Amelia is still leaning against the doorframe. 

“What was that, Liebchen?” 

“Du liebst Justin, richtig?” 

Amelia smiles. “Of course, dear. He’s the son I wish I had.” 

“See, there you- hey!” 

Amelia and Ransom both laugh, and Ransom sets down his bag to pull her into a hug. “Guten abend, Amelia. It's good to see you again.” 

“You too Justin,” says Amelia, patting him gently on the back. “Now come on, let’s get you two something to eat.” 

They’re mobbed by Holster’s sisters the moment they step inside, Katja and Shelby both hugging Holster tightly while Rebekah hangs back, smiling serenely. 

“Bekah, you’re huge!” gasps Holster once his sisters break away from him. Rebekah laughs brightly, placing one hand on her stomach. 

"Thanks, bro," she says with a grin that looks so much like Holster's, Ransom has to stare. "That wasn't insulting at all. Honestly, it's a good thing you're not dating a girl, you'd have no idea how to talk to her." She shoots Ransom a wink that he's not sure he understands, but then Shelby and Katja are coming to hug him and he gets a mouthful of blonde hair before he can say anything. 

“When are you due?” asks Holster, ignoring her comment completely. 

“Not until September,” Rebekah, batting away Holster’s hands as he tries to place a hand beside hers on her stomach with a laugh. 

“Speaking of,” says Amelia, smiling softly. “Michael, Karl, could you come in here for a minute?” 

Rebekah and Amelia's husbands duck out of the den, where Ransom is sure they were talking about insurance, or the economy, or golf. Ransom had played golf in high school, but he’d been the only non white person on the team, all four years. A testament, he guesses, to just how upper middle class and white Holster's family is. 

Michael and Holster exchange some sort of strange fistbump bro hug combination that makes Ransom vaguely uncomfortable for a reason he can’t quite name, and he looks away quickly, turning to Holster’s stepfather instead. 

“Hey Mr. G,” he says, holding out a hand and hoping his discomfort doesn’t show in his voice. 

“Justin,” says Karl warmly, grabbing his hand and pulling him into a hug. The top of his head reaches somewhere around Ransom’s collarbone. “Great to see you again.” 

“You too, sir,” says Ransom. He knows objectively that he has no reason to be this nervous around Holster’s stepfather, and yet for some reason every time he speaks to him he gets the overwhelming feeling that he’s about to mess everything up. 

“Karl and I have an announcement to make,” says Amelia, taking Karl’s hand in hers. He’s a good six inches shorter than her, and it might be funny were it not for the fact that they stare at each other like they’re looking at their entire world. Karl grins at her and Amelia turns back to the small crowd surrounding them, placing one hand on her stomach just like Rebekah had moments before. All of her children are shouting before she has a chance to say anything else. 

“Mom, oh my god!” 

“Are you serious?” 

“I might finally have a brother?” 

Ransom grins. Amelia and Karl have been trying to have a baby for as long as he’s known them, and he can’t think of anyone who deserves one more than they do. He knows Karl loves Holster and his sisters as if they were his own, but even Katja was already almost ten when he and Amelia met. Ransom’s content to just watch in silence as everyone hugs Amelia, but Shelby quickly pulls him in as well, and he gets sandwiched between her and Holster, his face buried in Katja’s hair. It’s not comfortable by any stretch of the imagination, squished between all of these blonde giants, but somehow, it kind of feels like home. 

*** 

They stay up later than they probably should, drinking beer and hard cider and playing cards against humanity with Holster’s sisters, long after Amelia and Karl have gone to bed. Rebekah wins by a landslide, which Holster tries to blame on her being the only sober one, despite the fact that he spends the whole evening nursing the same beer. It’s almost two before they’re finally in bed, practically plastered up against each other in Holster’s full size bed. Ransom had offered to sleep on the floor, but Holster told him almost immediately not to be stupid and pulled him onto the mattress beside him, and even if it was bringing up all the thoughts from earlier that Ransom had tried so hard to shove down, he was never one to turn down cuddling, especially not from Holster. 

When he wakes up the next morning, they’re face to face, legs and fingers tangled together, the mid-morning sunlight shining in through the window and lighting up Holster’s hair gold. Ransom manages to resist the urge to reach forward and brush it off his forehead, but only by actually forcing himself up and out of the room. 

Shelby’s already in the kitchen when Ransom gets there, her long blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, dressed in a bright blue sports bra and leggings, water bottle in one hand and phone in the other. 

“Sup,” she says, not looking up from the screen of her phone. 

Ransom shoves his hands in the pockets of his sweats and shrugs. “You going for a run?” 

“Yeah, you wanna join?” 

“You wouldn’t mind?” 

Shelby looks up at him and grins. “Not as long as you can keep up.” 

Shelby runs fast and hard and ignores Ransom for the most part, but he doesn’t mind. He’s got the anxious, jittery kind of energy that he can usually only solve with a really hard training session, and he’s glad to have something to channel it into. By the time they get back to the house and start doing cool down stretches on the porch, he’s feeling almost normal again. 

“So have you and Adam talked about how you’re planning on working the distance?” asks Shelby, grabbing her foot behind her back to stretch out her calves. “Providence to Palo Alto is pretty far.” 

Ransom frowns. They’ve discussed it briefly, but he doesn’t like thinking about it. The jittery anxiety starts rising back up in his chest. “Kind of,” he says honestly, rolling his head to the side and cracking his neck. “I mean it’s only four years. Plus we’ll still have summers and holidays together.” 

Shelby grins ruefully. “I wish I had that kind of patience. Lacey left for college and I just dumped her.” 

Ransom suddenly gets exactly what she's implying. “Wait- you all know- I mean, you don’t think Holst- Adam and I are dating, right?” 

“Oh my god, you’re not?” asks Shelby. “Adam took you as his date to Bekah’s wedding, and I just assumed...” She trails off, looking mortified. “Shit dude, sorry.” 

“It's fine,” says Ransom quickly. “I mean, I can see why you'd think that.” People made the mistake pretty frequently at school, which wasn’t surprising considering the fact that they lived in the same room and the “one in four maybe more” rule, but it was different knowing that Holster’s family had thought they were together too, especially considering that Rebekah had gotten married the summer after their freshman year, nearly three years previously. “He doesn’t think of me like that though.” 

“And how do you think of him?” 

It takes Ransom a moment to realize how he’d phrased what he said, and another to form a response. “We’re just friends,” he says firmly, just as he always does when people ask what’s going on between them. He’s said it so many times he’s actually started to believe it. 

The look Shelby gives him as she opens the door and goes back in the house tells him that she clearly doesn’t. 

*** 

Holster’s in the kitchen with Katja when Ransom finally composes himself enough to follow Shelby inside. The two of them are bumping elbows while they make breakfast and babbling in rapid fire German while Rebekah sits at the bar between the kitchen and dining room, drinking a cup of tea and smiling at her siblings and Shelby leans against the door frame, texting again. 

“Hey,” says Ransom, sitting down heavily on the stool next to Rebekah. 

“Morning,” she says with a smile, sliding the teapot towards him. “You want some tea? It’s full of good pregnancy vitamins I guess.” 

“Oh good, I was worried that I haven’t been getting enough of those,” says Ransom, accepting the cup she hands him with a smile. He sips at it slowly, watching as Holster and Katja keep talking in the kitchen. 

“Hast du ihm gesagt, wie du dich fühlst?” Katja asks Holster with a grin, picking up with cutting board of mushrooms she’s been chopping and adding them to the pan of diced bacon that Holster’s been watching. “Morning, Justin,” she adds, winking at Ransom. 

“Wir sind nur Freudin, K,” says Holster, his cheeks flushing red as he waves Katja away. “Das ist alles.” 

Ransom has never wished more that he’d let Holster continue his attempted German lessons back in their sophomore year. To be fair, Holster had been using teaching Ransom German as an excuse to avoid studying for his midterms, so Ransom had perfectly good reasons for stopping them, but he wishes that they’d started up again after their tests were over. 

“Are you talking about me?” he asks, and Katja and Shelby, who’s finally looked up from her phone, both smirk. 

“I’d never,” says Katja. “Adam, on the other hand, never shuts up about you.” 

Holster snorts, and keeps his focus on the pan in front of him. 

“Oooh, Justin’s so smart and talented and wonderful,” coos Shelby. 

“Justin’s the best hockey player I know,” says Katja, her voice sickly sweet. 

“Justin’s the best person I know.” 

“I want to have Justin’s adopted babies,” cries out Katja, flinging herself into Shelby’s arms dramatically. 

“I hate you both,” says Holster, his entire face now flushed. 

“Not Justin though,” says Shelby, who’s still giggling despite the death glare that Holster is shooting her way. “You loooooove Justin.” 

“See if I ever make you breakfast again,” says Holster, turning back to his pan and pouring eggs over the bacon and mushrooms in it. 

“We’re naming him Eric if he’s a boy, right?” asks Ransom with a grin. 

"Obviously," Holster says begrudgingly, cheeks still tinged with pink 

*** 

They stay the rest of the day in Buffalo, talking with Holster’s sisters, laughing at Karl and Michael as they wait on their wives hand and foot. Ransom feels just like he always does when he spends time with the Birkholtzes, like he’s been part of the family since the first day he met them. He’s sad to go the next morning, but he’s excited to see his own sisters again. With all his finals and worries about graduation, he hadn’t had a chance to get home to see his family since Christmas break. They’d made it to his graduation, but they had to leave right after so they could get home in time for his little sister’s high school graduation the next day. 

He’s barely out of the car before he’s attacked, eighteen year old girl on one side, twelve year old corgi on the other. 

“Justin!” shouts Alexis while Pancake sniffs his feet and paws at his pant leg. 

“Hey, kid,” says Ransom with a grin, pulling her in for a real hug. She’s gotten taller since he last saw her, but she’s still short enough that he can rest his chin on top of her head. “Sorry I couldn’t make it to your graduation.” 

Alexis waves a hand at him dismissively. “Eh, it was boring anyways. A lot of ‘you’ll look back on this as the best four years of your life’ and shit like that.” 

“I promise you, it’s not,” says Ransom, glancing over his shoulder at Holster, who’s digging through the trunk of the car for something. “Or at least, it wasn’t for me.” 

“I hope it wasn’t for anyone,” says Alexis. “High school _blows_ . ‘Sup, Adam?” 

“Hey, Lexi,” says Holster, pulling his and Ransom’s bags out of the trunk of the car. “You wanna give me a hand here?” 

“What’s that saying again? Any friend of Justin’s is his responsibility?” 

“Excuse you, I am a guest here.” 

Alexis grins but walked towards the car to help Holster with the bags. “If I remember correctly, you spent more time here last summer than you did with your actual family.” 

“She’s not wrong, you know,” says Ransom, taking the other bag from Holster and leading him towards the house. 

Holster huffs. “I feel very targeted right now.” 

Ransom snorts quietly and turns back to Alexis. “Where’s Rissa?” 

Alexis shrugs. “Work, I think. She should be by for dinner.” 

“How many people are gonna be at dinner that I need to know?” 

“Not too many,” says Alexis, putting Holster’s bag down just inside the door and leaning down to take off her shoes. “Mama wanted to keep it lowkey. Just three uncles, four aunts, the neighbors and their family, and like eight or nine cousins. And Marissa and Edward and the baby, obviously.” 

Holster turns to look at Ransom incredulously, and Ransom can’t help but laugh. 

*** 

As they lay in bed that night, this time on the queen size guest room mattress, Holster turns to look at Ransom. 

“I spy something glowing.” 

“Is it the glow in the dark stars on the ceiling?” 

“Nah dude, it’s your smile.” 

Ransom groans, loudly and pulls his pillow out from under his head to smack Holster in the face with it. “Oh my god, go to sleep.” 

*** 

It's gray when they leave Toronto the next morning, and even though they keep holding out hope that it'll get warmer, they haven't been in their hotel room in Niagara Falls for more than five minutes before they hear the unmistakable crash of thunder from outside, followed by the sound of rain hitting the window. 

"It's raining," says Holster unnecessarily. 

Ransom snorts. "Guess we're not going to the pool today." He opens the curtains just in time to see a flash of lightning. "Bar then?" 

"I don't know, man," says Holster with a shrug. "We've got like a week here, you want to just stay in? Watch a movie or something?" 

Ransom doesn't even think about saying no. It doesn't even occur to him until they're almost through their second movie and Holster is dozing next to him that it's their first night they've spent in Niagara Falls together sober. Of course he always enjoys going out and drinking with Holster, making out with girls whose names they don't remember, staggering back to the hotel at four in the morning, but he'd rather do this any night. 

"Rans," mumbles Holster against his shoulder. 

"Yeah?" 

Holster's silent for a few minutes, and Ransom's sure he must have fallen back asleep. Eventually though, he speaks again. 

"This is just... It's nice." 

Ransom smiles. "Yeah, it is." 

*** 

Ransom meets a girl named Ellie at the bar they go to the next night. She's tall and blonde and completely his type, but even though she's clearly trying to invite him back to her room, he can't really find it in himself to care. Even though he's almost positive that Holster’s hooking up with the guy he saw him flirting with earlier, the chance that he's not is enough for Ransom to gently turn down Ellie and return to their own hotel room. 

Surprisingly enough, Holster is sitting at the door. 

“I lost my key card,” he says sheepishly, and Ransom grins, pulling out his own and unlocking the door. 

“What happened to the guy from the bar? Jake?” 

Holster shrugs. “I don't know man. You ever feel like constantly hooking up is just... Pointless? Like it's not like I'm about to find the love of my life at a bar in Niagara Falls at one in the morning.” 

Ransom laughs, but for some reason the idea of Holster finding the love of his life makes something twinge in his chest. “You never know.” 

“Whatever,” says Holster, pushing himself to his feet. “Who needs romance when I've got you?” 

“Exactly,” says Ransom, throwing an arm around Holster’s shoulders, ignoring how his chest gets even tighter. “You're all I need, man.” 

*** 

The rest of the week in Niagara Falls is much of the same. They go out, they drink, one or both of them almost gets the chance to hook up with someone, and then at the last minute they change their mind and spend the rest of the evening watching movies or just hanging out in their hotel room. 

It’s the best time Ransom’s had there since they started going. 

And then it’s over. 

“We’ll come back next year, right?” asks Holster on the last morning. 

“Chyeah, dude,” says Ransom, trying to shove his swim trunks back into his already almost bursting suitcase. He doesn’t know why packing up the second time is always so much harder than the first. “We’re coming back every year, forever.” 

Holster grins. “Even when we’re old and saggy and married with kids.” 

Ransom looks up at him. They’ve talked about marriage before, in the abstract sense of ‘ _maybe one day we’ll both marry people,’_ but he’s never been able to find the words to tell Holster he’s the only person he can ever see himself spending the rest of his life with. “Even then,” he says anyways. 

*** 

“Seriously dude? Never?” 

They’re somewhere in Pennsylvania when Ransom finds out Holster has never been to Washington, D.C. 

“So?” 

“You’ve lived like seven hours away your whole life.” 

“Yeah, but like, what reason would I have to make the trip?” 

“Man, I’m Canadian and I’ve been like four times. It’s just a thing you do when you live on the East Coast.” 

“Yeah, but you’re a nerd.” 

Ransom sighs, loudly and dramatically. “Come on, just give me your phone so I can map it. We’re gonna see the damn Washington Monument and you’re going to be happy about it.” They’re supposed to be going north across Ohio now, but for once, Ransom doesn’t really care. 

As long as it had taken him to get Holster to agree to any sort of schedule beyond “we’ll probably make it to Palo Alto in the first week or so of August,” Ransom is suddenly ready to give the whole thing up. He had gotten his entire life planned into a series of charts and graphs and pro/con lists by the third grade and hasn’t changed it since - he’s still holding out hope that he can marry J Lo someday. There’s something about Holster though, that has him wanting to do something crazy - to take a risk, throw caution to the wind, to just do things without taking the time to think them through first or see how they fit into his plan. 

It’s fucking terrifying and Ransom’s never been happier. 

*** 

“It kind of looks like a dong.” 

Ransom turns to look at Holster. “Seriously? Like two hundred years of history in front of you and all you can say is that it looks like a dong?” 

“It does though, doesn’t it?” 

“Well it’s too white to be mine and too big to be yours.” 

“Oh yeah?” asks Holster, reaching for his belt. “You wanna bet?” 

“Bro.” Ransom puts a hand on Holster’s wrist. “We’re in public.” 

“And yet there’s a massive marble dong right there.” 

They turn and stare at the monument again, shoulders brushing. 

“Okay, you’re right, it kind of looks like a dong,” says Ransom. “Wanna go get drunk and then go the airplane museum?” 

“Dude, it’s like you’re in my brain!” 

*** 

“I spy a weirdly phallic airplane.” 

“Bro,” says Ransom. “What is it with you and dongs today? And besides that's not even how the game works.” 

Holster points at the airplane he was talking about, and Ransom’s eyes widen in surprise. 

“Okay, that is... _impressively_ phallic.” 

Holster grins. “Fuckin’ told you.” 

*** 

They’re just getting in the car the next morning when Holster turns to Ransom and says, sounding more serious than Ransom has ever heard him, “Dude. It’s time.” 

“It’s time?” 

“It’s time.” 

“For?” 

Holster grins. “We gotta find out if KFC is better in Kentucky.” 

“Man, I don’t know if I want to go to Kentucky. Isn’t it just racism and country music?” 

“Nah, that’s Tennessee. Kentucky is racism, country music, and fried chicken.” 

“That really doesn’t sweeten the pot too much.” 

“Please?” 

Ransom sighs. He knows, no matter how much he might want to, he can’t deny Holster anything. And besides, he does kind of want to know if KFC is better in Kentucky. “Yeah, okay. But we’re staying as far north as we can and leaving the state right after.” 

“Deal. There’s a place called Florence that’s only twenty minutes south of the border.” 

“You looked this up already?” 

Holster looks over at him, a mischievous look in his eyes. 

“You ever think we might know each other _too_ well?” asks Ransom. 

“Never.” 

Ransom breaks into a grin. “Good, me neither.” 

*** 

As it turns out, KFC tastes exactly the same in Kentucky as it does everywhere else. 

*** 

“Hey,” says Ransom, when they’re in a laundromat in the middle of Indiana. “I spy something pink.” 

Holster gasps in delight. Ransom has been giving him shit for trying to make I Spy happen since the first day. 

“Is it-” he pauses, looking around the dingy, fluorescent lit room. “Bro, there’s nothing pink here.” 

Ransom holds up a previously white sock in one hand and a pair of Holster’s bright red boxer briefs in the other. “You sure about that?” 

*** 

They eat their way through Chicago. They make a promise as they enter city limits that all they’ll consume until they leave again is pizza and beer. 

They’re drunk enough for the for the first few days that they almost forget that no one is supposed to live on pizza for a week straight, but by the beginning of day four they’re dehydrated and starting to hate the smell of cheese. 

“It was such a good idea on Monday,” says Holster, staring at the piece of cold pizza in front of him. 

“I know, baby,” says Ransom, patting him on the shoulder with the hand that’s not rubbing his own stomach. 

Holster looks up with a frown. “I feel sick.” 

“Yeah. I want a vegetable.” 

“I want a salad.” 

“I want one of Bitty’s pies.” 

“I want one of Bitty’s hugs.” 

“Fuck, me too.” 

They laugh, leaning on each other heavily, and they stay there until Holster finally speaks again. “You wanna leave early?” 

“Please.” 

*** 

“Which way?” asks Ransom as they approach the highway entrance. 

“Don’t you have an itinerary or something?” 

Ransom shrugs. Maybe it’s just the excitement of his next meal being something besides pizza, but he’s feeling impulsive. 

“Oh shit. Uh-” 

“Hurry!” says Ransom, grinning. They’re coming up on the north entrance, the south one not for another block. 

“Fuck, north!” yells Holster, and Ransom pulls the steering wheel sharply to the right, barely managing to make the on ramp. The truck behind them honks loudly, and Ransom offers a half hearted apologetic wave in reply. 

“Look at you, rebel,” says Holster, and Ransom laughs. 

Holster plugs in his phone and starts playing some pop song that Ransom doesn’t know, and Ransom doesn’t stop smiling for a long time. 

*** 

They find a basement room in the middle of Wisconsin on Airbnb. It didn’t have any reviews, which should have been their first clue, and the only photo was of the outside of the house, which should have been their second. It’s the only place they can find in the area under fifty dollars though, and it’s already coming up on midnight, so they commit to the nonrefundable cost for a night, thinking that it can’t possibly be _that_ bad. 

It is, somehow, even worse. 

The room is freezing, entirely concrete, with a single twin mattress shoved into the corner. There are sheets on it, and a single thin, ratty blanket, but the only other thing in the room is a towel laid across the floor, looking like it’s trying very hard to pass for a rug. 

It does not pass for a rug. 

“Nice,” says Holster, dropping his bag on the floor next to him. “Dibs on the towel.” 

Ransom lets out an astonished laugh, and that starts Holster laughing too, and before they know it they’re huddled together in the doorway, giggling at this horrible room that they’re stuck with. 

“Should we just sleep in the car?” asks Ransom finally. 

“Dude, no offense, but your car is tiny. I don’t think even one of us would be able to sleep in there.” 

“I’m not sure we’re both going to fit on that mattress either.” 

Holster shrugs. “I wanted the towel anyways.” 

“Bro.” 

“It’s not like we haven’t cuddled before. We cuddled like two weeks ago at my parent’s house.” 

He’s not wrong, they have cuddled before. Ransom has the memories burned into his mind of the two of them squished into his tiny twin bed - Holster fast asleep beside him, while he tries his hardest not to think about the fact that they’re both mostly naked and touching in more places than he can count. At least at Holster’s parents house the bed had been a full size. 

“Fuck,” says Ransom, unable to tear his eyes away from the tiny mattress. “Yeah, okay.” 

“Good,” says Holster, flopping down on the mattress, somehow making it look even smaller than it had before. “I’m fuckin’ exhausted, I don’t have the energy to figure something else out.” He begins struggling out of his pants. 

“Think that might’ve been easier standing up?” says Ransom, sitting down on the edge of the mattress and unlacing his shoes, his eyelids heavy already. 

“Shut up,” says Holster, finally managing to kick them off. 

“At least scoot over,” says Ransom, forcing himself back to his feet so he can pull off his own pants. 

Holster complies, rolling to the side so Ransom can lay down behind him. 

The obvious solution is for them to lie back to back. They could never fit next to each other shoulder to shoulder, but it’s a lot less likely to end with something embarrassing coming up than spooning. As soon as Ransom settles in though, he feels Holster shifting behind him, and then there’s an arm being thrown over his waist, and a warm chest pressed to his back. 

“It’s cold in here,” says Holster sleepily. 

Ransom is suddenly very awake. Every inch of skin that’s touching Holster’s feels like it’s on fire, and he’s far too aware of the way Holster’s legs fit perfectly behind his own. He tries his best to think about gross things - the laundry basket in the locker room, that time Dex had taken a puck to the face and had a swollen yellow bruise for two weeks, anyone named Chad - but none of that manages to distract him from the feeling of Holster’s hot breath on the back of his neck. He shivers slightly, which just makes Holster pull him closer, and Ransom doesn’t know why this is affecting him so badly, they touch casually all the time, and yet- he’s not sure he’s ever been this turned on in his life. 

“Bathroom,” he mutters, pulling himself out of Holster grip and ducking through the door labeled “BATH.” 

He stares at himself in the tiny, speckled mirror, almost expecting to look different, but the only differences he can spot are the flush high on his cheeks and his dilated pupils. 

He’d been planning on splashing some water on his face, taking a moment to collect himself, and heading back out there, but the sink runs yellow when he turns it on, and somehow not even the grossness of that does anything about the fact that he’s still painfully hard, and there’s a tall, beautiful boy that he has to get back into bed with in a few minutes. 

He sits down on the closed toilet seat, and before he can think too hard about it, pulls himself out of his boxers, the _need_ to be touched outweighing his sense of shame, but only barely. 

When he comes though, almost embarrassingly quickly, all he’s left with is the shame and the mental image of Holster’s hand on him instead of his own. 

*** 

Ransom makes the realization at about three in the morning while they're scheduled to be asleep in a motel in Missouri but are actually far too awake at an all night diner in Minnesota, drinking burnt coffee and eating undercooked pie. Holster is holding his mug between his hands and laughing at something that Ransom said that was only funny in the way things are after midnight, while running on not quite enough sleep. His eyes are shining with happiness and the flickering lamps overhead are lighting up his hair gold, and Ransom's breath catches in his chest and all he can think is, "oh." 

He’s always thought Holster is hot, obviously, how could he not, but it’s not hot that he’s seeing Holster as right now, it’s not even cute. Holster is _beautiful,_ and Ransom wants to spend the rest of his life making him smile like that, wants to listen to that laugh forever, and how could he ever convince himself that all he wanted from Holster was his friendship? 

Holster has stopped laughing and is raising his coffee cup to his lips when he notices Ransom’s staring. 

“You good?” 

“What?” asks Ransom, glancing away quickly. “Yeah, I just- never mind.” 

Holster laughs again, loud enough that the only other person in the place looks up from across the room. It sounds like music. “Okay, bro,” he says once he's done laughing, throwing back the rest of his coffee. “You done?” 

Ransom looks down at his soggy, half eaten apple pie and thinks maybe it's a metaphor for his life. It could have been great, if only it had had a little more time. “Yeah,” he says, shoving it away and getting to his feet, a sick, twisting feeling in his stomach that he doesn’t think has anything to do with the cheap diner food. “Yeah, I’m done.” 

Holster gives him a strange look that Ransom carefully ignores, looking down at his hands as he pulls his wallet from his pocket. 

“Dude, I got this,” says Holster, pulling out his card before Ransom has a chance to open his wallet. 

“You sure?” 

Holster grins. “You know my mama raised a gentleman.” 

Ransom shoves Holster gently. This is what they’re good at, what he knows how to do. “You never told me you had a brother.” 

“Asshole,” Holster shoots back cheerfully, slinging one arm around Ransom’s shoulders and pulling him towards the counter to pay. It feels like the most natural thing in the world for Ransom to lean into his touch, sliding his own arm around Holster’s waist. He’s always known how much _more_ he feels about Holster than he’s ever felt about anyone else, but he wonders how it took him this long to realize what it meant. 

Holster pays quickly and Ransom stays quiet, leaning against his shoulder as Holster makes polite small talk with the woman behind the counter, mumbling a quick thank you as she tells them to have a good night with a smile and a wink. 

“You good to drive, or do you just want to call it a night?” asks Holster, pulling the door open, cringing a little at the wave of hot air that hits them. “I think I’m awake enough to drive if you're not, but...” He trails off, glancing over at Ransom’s car. They're over three weeks in and Ransom still hasn't let him drive. 

“Let’s keep going,” says Ransom, pulling his keys out of his pocket and shoving them into Holster’s hand. “Just a little longer.” 

*** 

As much as he wanted to stay awake, Ransom’s asleep within minutes of getting in the car. When he wakes up again, Holster is drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and humming along to the song playing quietly through the car’s speakers. It takes Ransom a moment to recognize it as Taylor Swift and another to realize that it's not what woke him. When he manages to tear his gaze away from the boy beside him (and really, he definitely should have figured out what was going on sooner), he realizes that the sun is starting to rise, a strip of light tinting the horizon grey. 

_“Long live, the walls we crashed through, I had the time of my life with you,”_ sings Taylor, and Ransom can't help but smile. 

He closes his eyes and lets himself drift back to sleep. 

*** 

When Ransom wakes up again the sun is fully over the horizon, the sky is still just barely tinged with orange, they’re parked on the edge of a tiny highway, and all he can see is corn fields. 

“We in Iowa?” he asks, rubbing at his eyes. 

“Uh-huh,” says Holster through a yawn, stretching his arms above his head and rolling his neck to the side. “I need to sleep for a week.” 

“You want me to drive?” 

“Are you good to? My phone says there’s a town about ten miles up the road, I’m sure I can make it that far.” 

“Nah,” says Ransom, unlatching his seat belt and pushing the car door open. “I’m good, as long as we can find a hotel or something once we get there.” 

“Deal,” says Holster, yawning again and rubbing furiously at his eyes before getting out of the car. 

They’re about to cross paths in front of the car when Ransom stops him. 

“Hey Adam?” he says, catching Holster’s arm. 

“What’s up?” asks Holster, his smile tired but warm. 

“I’m just glad we’re doing this,” he says, pulling Holster into a hug. “Thanks for getting a big enough signing bonus that we could afford it.” 

Holster snorts but still buries his nose in Ransom’s hair. “Any time, bro.” 

*** 

“I spy something green.” 

Ransom sighs. “Is it grass?” 

“Holy shit dude, you got it.” 

*** 

They see the world’s biggest ball of twine in Kansas. Holster had insisted on it, and Ransom couldn’t think of any excuse to not go, besides “who the fuck would want to see a giant ball of string?” to which Holster had replied, “uh, duh, me,” and that had been that. 

It’s eleven feet across and actually pretty impressive, in a useless kind of way. Ransom knows Lardo would love it, and he snaps a photo to send to her before Holster decides he’s bored and that they should go to the burger place down the street advertising “world’s biggest burgers,” instead. 

*** 

They’re definitely not the world’s biggest, but they’re big enough that it’s impressive even to Ransom, a fellow hockey player and overeater, when Holster manages to finish three, along with a large fries and a milkshake. 

“Hey,” says Holster, once he’s finished shoving the last of his fries in his mouth. “Apparently there’s a place in Seattle that does twelve egg omelettes. We gotta go there next summer.” 

It hits Ransom again, just like it does every few days, that he doesn’t know the next time they’ll see each other in person. Holster has been the most constant thing in his life for the better part of four years, and suddenly, that’s all ending. 

“Hell yeah, dude,” he says instead of any of that, because he doesn’t really feel like crying in a burger joint in Middle of Nowheresville, Kansas. 

Holster opens his mouth again as if to say something else, pauses, takes a long drink of his milkshake, and gets to his feet. 

“Hey,” he finally says. “You ever wonder why Kansas and Arkansas aren’t pronounced the same way?” 

*** 

According to Google Maps, it’ll take four hours to get out of Kansas. 

The highway is narrow and mostly bordered by grass and corn. The only thing that breaks the monotony is the occasional farmhouse, maybe every five to ten minutes. 

“Rans?” says Holster as they pass one of the houses. 

“Yeah?” 

“Do you think that’s where Dorothy lives?” 

“Don’t be stupid, bro. She lives in Oz, everyone knows that.” 

“Oh shit, my bad.” 

*** 

According to Google Maps, it’ll take three hours and thirty-three minutes to get out of Kansas. 

“Rans?” says Holster again, as they pass the next house. 

“Yeah?” 

“Do you think that’s where Supernatural lived?” 

*** 

According to Google Maps, it’ll take an hour and forty minutes to get out of Kansas. 

The drive is mind numbing, the only sound in the car the quiet indie album that Holster had put on and his pointing comments about the houses they pass. It's so much of the same that Ransom doesn't realize something has changed until Holster points it out. 

“Uh, Rans?” 

“Yeah?” 

“The gas light is on.” 

“Oh. Shit.” 

“Do you know how long it's been on?” 

“No fuckin’ clue.” 

“Is that like. A thing we should do something about?” 

“Probably.” 

“Okay.” 

The music plays on as the seemingly endless corn zooms by outside. 

“We’re too late, aren't we?” 

“Probably.” 

“Shit.” 

Ransom pulls the car over on what can only barely count as a shoulder and pulls out his phone. “No signal. You got anything?” 

“Nope. You got a gas can?” 

“Nah, we gave it to that guy in Ohio, remember?” 

“Shit,” says Holster again. “You think Clark Kent lives near here? He’d probably help us.” 

“I heard he’s living in Metropolis now.” 

“Hm,” says Holster. “What do you think the odds are of us passing another house before we run out of gas?” 

The houses had started getting further apart within the last hour or so, and Ransom struggles to remember when they’d passed the last one. “Don’t think there’s much else we can do.” 

The light must have been on longer than they’d thought, because when the car sputters to a stop, there’s still an hour and nineteen minutes left until they’re supposed to get out of Kansas. 

  
  


“Well, shit,” says Holster, as the engine whines down into silence. 

Ransom drums his fingers on the steering wheel, staring at the little red needle pointing to the E on the gas gauge. “Yeah. Shit.” 

“What time is it?” 

Ransom pulls his phone out of his pocket, noting as he checks the time that he still has no reception. “Almost eight. And look, the sun’s setting.” He points to their right, where the sun is getting worryingly close to the horizon. 

“Shit,” says Holster again. “So... do we walk to find help?” 

Ransom can feel his anxiety building in his chest, his throat growing tight. “Uh. Not at sunset? Tomorrow maybe?” 

“Should we-” 

“Adam,” says Ransom quietly, and Holster stops, knowing that tone of voice immediately. Ransom sucks in a shaky breath, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. 

“Water?” asks Holster quietly, and Ransom nods, leaning forward to rest his forehead on the top of the steering wheel between his hands. This isn't a full blown panic attack yet, but he’s had enough to know that he's on his way to one.He takes the water bottle that Holster hands him gratefully, and does his best to remember his therapist’s instructions for how to stop panicking. He tries to focus on the feeling of the plastic under his fingers, the way his toes feel in his shoes, but suddenly all he can think about is the fact that he’ll have to find a new therapist in California, and it had taken him so long to find one he’d liked at Samwell, and it’s getting even harder to breathe. 

“Hey,” says Holster, his voice soft. “Hey, it’s okay. Can I touch you?” 

Ransom forces himself to nod, and Holster places one hand on his back, big and warm and grounding. He rubs slow circles as he unscrews the top of the water bottle with his other hand. 

“Drink some water.” His voice sounds weird, distant. 

Numbly, Ransom raises the bottle to his lips, and even though the water is luke warm and tastes like plastic, it forces him to steady his breathing a little. 

“You wanna breathe with me, bud?” asks Holster, once Ransom’s taken a long drink, and Ransom nods again. 

“Alright, in, two three four, hold, two three four five six seven, out, two three four five six seven eight, in, two three four...” 

Ransom doesn’t know how long they sit there, Holster counting slowly and steadily, his hand still rubbing gentle circles on Ransom’s back, but eventually his breathing slows down, his hands stop trembling, and his skin starts feeling normal again. 

“I think I’m good,” he says quietly. 

“Yeah?” asks Holster, stopping moving his hand but keeping it gently on Ransom’s shoulder. “You wanna drink some more water?” 

Ransom nods again, and raises the bottle to his lips again, the water soothing his dry throat. 

“I’m gonna go set up the tent, and we can walk to find gas tomorrow morning.” 

“I’ll help,” says Ransom, realizing he still hasn’t even undone his seatbelt. 

“You sure? I can do it by myself.” 

“Nah, it’s fine,” says Ransom, unfastening the belt and pushing the door open. “I gotta get out of this car. Sorry.” 

Holster smiles tentatively. “Sorry?” 

“For not noticing the gas. And panicking about it.” 

“Dude, you’re fine,” says Holster, smiling wider now. “Really. It’ll just be like camping. And then we can take a walk through all this beautiful corn tomorrow.” 

“I’ve seen enough corn to last the rest of my life,” says Ransom, but he smiles too. 

*** 

Holster catches a 24 hour stomach bug somewhere in the middle of New Mexico. It’s ninety-six degrees and they’re covered in sweat and locked in a tiny motel room with a broken air conditioner while Holster pukes his guts out. Ransom does what he can, but there’s not much he can do besides wait for it to be over. He brings Holster water, and runs the same old washcloth under cold water and then presses it to Holster’s forehead over and over, until he stops overheating and starts violently shivering instead. 

They spoon on the bathroom floor while Ransom tries not to think about all the germs underneath him and that he’s probably breathing in because Holster needs him right now, and that’s all that really matters. 

They only stop when Holster has to sit up to throw up again. Ransom sits up too, leaning back against the bathroom wall, rubbing slow circles on Holster’s back as he dry heaves. 

“Hey,” says Holster once he's done, turning back to look at Ransom. His face is paper white and shiny with sweat, and his voice is low and rough. “Thanks. I know this is like - a total nightmare for you.” 

“Hey, I'm not the one who's been throwing up for the last six hours.” 

Holster shrugs. “Yeah, but the motel, and the germs, and the million degree weather.” 

Ransom smiles, and takes Holster’s clammy hand in his. “You're my best friend dude, I'd do anything for you. Even deal with million degree weather or germs.” 

“Gay,” murmurs Holster, squeezing Ransom’s hand gently. “I need a nap.” 

*** 

They’ve had enough of motels after New Mexico, and it’s hot enough in Arizona anyways that it’s actually more pleasant to just find a campsite. There’s one a few miles from the Canyon, covered in cacti and not much else, that only charges them fifteen dollars to park and walk in. The sun’s gone down already, but it’s still almost eighty degrees, and they’re too tired to bother with a tent anyways, so they lay out Ransom’s sleeping bag between a Saguaro and a Cardon and just lay down on that, knowing they’ll probably wake up covered in bug bites but too tired to care. 

When Ransom wakes, he's in complete darkness, his whole body aching. At some point during the night, however long they've been asleep, they'd started spooning, but even with Holster pressed against his back, he's freezing. He starts pulling away, hoping to find a blanket in the trunk of his car, but Holster whines in his sleep and pulls Ransom closer. 

“Dude,” murmurs Ransom, tugging against Holster’s arms. “Holtzy, it’s fuckin freezing.” 

“Mmmrrggg,” groans Holster, always eloquent. 

“ _Adam_ ,” grumbles Ransom again. “Wake the _fuck_ up.” 

“What?” says Holster, finally loosening his grip around Ransom’s waist. 

“It’s freezing and my neck hurts. I’m gonna get blankets.” 

Holster releases Ransom completely and rolls onto his back. “Do you feel like you’ve been eaten alive?” he asks, voice still rough, scratching at one elbow. 

“What?” 

“I’ve got like a million bug bites. I’m gonna fight all the bugs. All million of them.” 

Ransom turns around with the blankets to see Holster pouting at him, still sleepily scratching at his arm. “You know that’s just gonna make it worse, right?” he asks, trying not to smile too fondly. 

“Shut up. Why aren’t you itchy?” 

Ransom shrugs, draping a blanket over Holster’s shoulders. “The bugs are racist.” 

“The white man is oppressed now more than ever,” mumbles Holster, burying his face in the blanket. 

“Goodnight, Adam,” says Ransom, laying back down beside him. 

“G’night Justin.” 

*** 

When Holster was in the third grade, his class had spent a week long unit learning about geology and erosion, and Holster had never forgotten it. He'd spent a good three years planning his career as an archaeologist before he realized that it would involve long hours out in the sun, and that his skin burned faster than Bitty's pie the one (and only) time he'd asked Nursey to keep an eye on it while he ran upstairs for something. He’d given up on the archaeology career, but the love of rocks had stayed. Ransom had known Holster long enough that when Holster had informed him they’d be going to see the Grand Canyon, he’d known there was no talking him out of it. 

It’s not that he didn’t _want_ to see it necessarily - he thought mountains were pretty, sure, and he got the aesthetic appeal of Niagara Falls, even if he really only went to see Holster, he just didn’t understand how going to look at a huge hole in the ground would be worth the two extra days of desert driving it would add to their trip. 

Then they get there, and suddenly, Ransom gets it. It seems to go on forever, all green and gold and pink and orange, and Ransom thinks it might be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes, staring down at the winding river, what feels like miles below him. The drop off is enough to make even the strongest of stomachs lurch a little, but the view is more than enough to make up for the vaguely queasy feeling he gets. “It’s... It’s fucking beautiful, man. It’s like if a sunset were made of rocks.” 

He glances over at Holster to see his reaction, expecting an ‘I told you so’ at the very least, but Holster isn’t looking at the canyon. His gaze is fixed on Ransom instead, eyes wide and mouth hanging open slightly. There’s something familiar in the expression, but Ransom can’t quite figure out what it is. 

“What?” he asks. 

Holster shuts his mouth with a snap. “Nothing,” he says, biting his lip. “I just- Nothing.” 

It isn’t until later that evening as they’re walking back to the car, Ransom’s arm slung around Holster’s bright pink shoulders, Holster still being uncharacteristically silent, that Ransom figures it out. 

“Dude, what’s up?” he asks, pulling Holster closer. “You’ve been quiet for hours. You’re never quiet.” 

“Nothing,” says Holster, shoving Ransom away with a laugh that Ransom might not be able to tell was forced if they hadn’t spent almost every day of the last four years together. “I was just thinking.” He pauses, biting his lip. “You know you’re my best friend, right?” 

Normally Ransom would make a joke, laugh Holster off, tell him to stop being so sappy, but the strange look from before is back, and Ransom realizes all at once that it’s familiar because he’d had the same expression on his face not two weeks before when he’d realized what exactly Holster meant to him. 

“You’re my best friend too, man,” he says instead, and reaches out to take Holster’s hand. Holster grins at him, twisting their fingers together and stepping closer again, and Ransom’s chest tightens in the best possible way. He’s not quite sure if he wants to laugh or to cry, so he just leans his head on Holster’s shoulder and lets him lead the way to the car. 

*** 

The John Muir trail travels through 211 miles of central California, starting in the Yosemite Valley and making its way all the way to Mount Whitney. Ransom and Holster had talked briefly at the beginning of the summer about trying to do the whole trail, but that would take time that they don’t have anymore. 

The plan is this. They’ll start their hike in the early afternoon, hike until they don’t want to anymore, camp for the night, and head back the next day. It’s about a four hour drive from Yosemite Valley to Stanford, and if they time it out right, they should be able to make it there by late that evening, giving them three days before Holster’s flight back. 

They make it about an hour into the hike before things start to go, as Shitty would say, tits up. 

“Holtzy?” asks Ransom, pulling off his sunglasses. “Does it look... grayish to you?” 

Holster stops, removing his sunglasses as well and looking around, then up at the sky. “Eh, it’s just a few clouds. I’m sure it’ll clear up.” 

Ransom looks up too, only to see the whole west side of the sky covered in a mass of angry looking, dark grey clouds. “That doesn’t look like something that’ll clear up, bro.” 

“Bro, it’s fine.” From somewhere far in the distance, Ransom hears the low rumble of thunder. 

“Bro,” says Ransom again, and normally Holster would make a joke about that, but he doesn’t even look back, just keeps climbing up the hill in front of them. 

“It’s fine,” repeats Holster quietly, and Ransom isn’t sure he’s still talking about the clouds. 

They hike in silence for five more minutes before the thunder rumbles again, much closer now. 

“Adam, I really think we should go back,” says Ransom. “Or at least set up the tent? Otherwise we’re gonna get caught-” 

The thunder claps again, and before Ransom can finish his sentence, the sky opens up and it begins to pour. 

“-In the rain,” he finishes, unnecessarily. “Still think it’s gonna clear up?” 

“Do you want me to say you were right?” 

“What?” 

Holster turns back, fists clenched and shaking. “Go ahead, say you told me so.” 

“Dude, that’s not-” Ransom stops, not even sure what to say, no idea where Holster’s anger is coming from. “Fuck, can we find a rock to stand under or something?” They’re both dressed in tank tops and shorts, and the rain is already easily soaking through all of it. 

Holster sighs. “Yeah, there was a cave a few minutes back.” 

He turns and starts walking back the way they’d come, shoulders still tense. Ransom follows him in silence. He’s felt this way around other people before - of course he has, he’s a millenial with about eight different kinds of diagnosed anxiety - but never around Holster. Holster’s the only person in his life he’s always known exactly how to talk to. 

By the time they reach the cave, it’s pretty much pointless. They’re both completely soaked through, and Ransom doesn’t have much hope for the food in their backpacks either. They duck into it anyways, because at least without the rain in their faces they’ll be able to focus on what to do next. 

Holster unfastens his pack and drops it in the corner, and Ransom follows suit, pulling off his shirt as well and dropping it to the floor with a wet _slap_ . He’s leaning down to unlace his boots when he realizes Holster is staring at him, fists clenched again. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” snaps Holster, turning away and pulling off his own shirt. 

“What the fuck, man?” Ransom snaps back. “You’ve been so weirdly intense about this whole thing, and now you’re mad about - what? The fact that I can tell that grey clouds mean it’s gonna rain?” He’s never spoken to Holster like this before, but he’s frustrated, and his shorts are wet and itchy, and he’s trying very hard not to think about the fact that they have less than a week left together. 

“I’m not-” starts Holster angrily. He pauses, takes a deep breath, starts again. “I’m not mad at you, Justin. Fuck, I wish I was mad at you.” 

“You’re not making any sense.” 

Holster runs a hand through his hair, slicking it back out of his face. “You know that in four years the worst argument we’ve ever gotten in was about the fact that you were fucking some girl instead of doing your homework?” 

Ransom remembers vividly. That had been when he’d dating March in some strange attempt to prove to himself that he could be in a real relationship. She’d broken up with him because she’d been in love with her best friend, and somehow Ransom had failed to see the irony of that until just now. “Yeah, I remember,” is all he says. 

“I guess I just kept thinking that if this last hike could just be perfect, it’d distract me from how _fucking_ bad this hurts.” 

“We’ll still see each other,” says Ransom, even though he doesn’t know when. He’s going to med school, he’s pretty sure free time isn’t a thing they believe in there. “And we’ll skype all the time. And we’ll-” he has to stop then, because he can’t speak past the lump in his throat. It’s not going to be the same, and they both know it, but Ransom has spent so long convincing himself that it’ll be fine, he actually almost believes it. Almost. 

"I've never had a friend like you," says Holster, and Ransom's no longer sure how much of the water on his face is just from the rain. 

  
_"I didn't know what love what until I met you,"_ he wants to say, or _"you're the best proof I've ever seen of soulmates existing,"_ but instead, he just says, "me neither, bro.” 

Holster takes a step forward, and for a moment, Ransom is sure he’s going to kiss him. “Adam,” he breathes, before Holster pulls him into a bone crushing hug. 

Ransom hugs him back, not sure if he’s disappointed or relieved. There’s nothing he wants more in this moment than to kiss Holster, but he’s sure that if he did there would be no going back. He doesn’t know how he’ll survive the next four years without Holster now, let alone once he’s known him that way. 

“We’ll figure it out,” murmurs Ransom against Holster’s neck. 

“We always do,” Holster whispers back. 

*** 

“Hey,” says Ransom, as they walk back in nothing but their boots and their still damp boxers. “I spy my best friend in the whole world.” 

Holster turns to look at him. “Okay, yeah, I see why you hate that now.” 

Ransom can’t help but laugh. 

*** 

They stop about two hours east of San Francisco. Ransom knows, and he's sure Holster does too, that they could easily make it to Palo Alto that night, but when Ransom says he's tired, and they can drive the rest of the way in the morning, Holster is quick to agree. They find an only kind of sketchy looking motel just off the highway and get the last room they have available. It's only got one bed, but it's big enough that when they both lay down it feels like there's an ocean between them. They've grown so used to being in each other's space it's started to feel wrong when they aren't. 

The moment the lights are turned off they begin to gravitate back together. 

They take their time eating breakfast the next morning at a tiny diner where everything is so dirty that Bitty probably would have cried upon seeing it. Ransom has to ask for a new spoon for his coffee three times before he gets one without anything stuck to it. It's disgusting, and the food is greasy and overcooked, but they still manage to spend over an hour pushing food around their plates and talking about Samwell before their waitress not so subtly places their bill in front of them. Ransom gives her his card, despite Holster's protests, and then they're back out at the car, with nowhere else to go but Ransom's school. 

"You drive," says Ransom, tossing Holster the keys. His hands are shaking so badly he doesn't think he could drive if he wanted to. Holster accepts them wordlessly, sliding into the driver's seat and plugging in his phone. They turn the music up so loud they can't hear themselves think, and they're out on the highway within minutes. Neither of them have said it, but Ransom knows Holster feels the same was that he does - that once they reach his school everything will suddenly be real. They've spent the whole summer trying to prepare themselves for this day, but now that it's here, Ransom feels just as lost as he did the day they left. 

It's just after three by the time the reach the campus, and the sun is shining, brighter than Ransom can ever remember it being. He isn’t surprised, exactly; they’re not quite in SoCal, but it’s still California in July. Even so, he feels like the weather is mocking him - hell, it feels like the whole town is mocking him. It’s beautiful and perfect and he’s sure as they pull onto the campus and he gets his first look at it that it would look like everything he’s ever wanted - if only everything he’s ever wanted weren’t sitting next to him, wearing a Samwell tank top and swearing at the top of his lungs about how “fucking hot as balls it is here, Jesus Christ, Justin, how are you going to live like this?” 

He doesn't know how he's going to live like this - he's spent so long being Ransom, part of Ransom and Holster, the best college D-man pair on the east coast, he's not sure how to go back to just being Justin Oluransi - but before he can figure out an answer, Holster is parking the car and turning to him, his bright grin not quite reaching his eyes. "You ready?" he asks. 

"Chyeah," scoffs Justin, forcing his face into something that he hopes looks positive and trying not to think about the fact that as soon as he steps out of the car he's going to be standing at his home for the next four years. "I was born ready, bro." 

*** 

They sleep in the same bed again that night. They don't even have a good excuse this time; Justin's roommate isn't supposed to arrive for another week, and the twin bed is barely big enough for one, but when Justin gets out of the bathroom after brushing his teeth and taking out his contacts, Adam is laying in his bed, the mattress on the other side of the room looking stark and white in comparison. 

"There's only one set of sheets," says Adam, and that's good enough for Justin to slide into the bed beside him and tangle their fingers together. 

"Man, what am I going to do without you?" Adam asks a few minutes later. It's too dark to see his face, but Justin can hear the catch in his breath. 

"Listen to a lot of Taylor Swift?" 

Adam snorts. "You say that like I don't already." 

"You'll be fine," says Justin, talking as much to Adam as he is to himself. "We'll skype whenever you want, and you'll have hockey taking up all your time anyways, and - dude, why would you need me when you can be hanging out with Alexei freakin' Mashkov?" 

"Okay, you're right. Tater is way cooler than you." 

Justin grins. "Now that that's been settled, can we go to sleep? You're spending tomorrow helping me unpack, so you'd better not be yawning through it." 

"Yeah, whatever," says Adam, rolling onto his side and pulling Justin's hand with him so Justin’s chest presses up against his back. "Goodnight." 

"Goodnight," murmurs Justin into Adam’s hair. 

*** 

The day of Adam’s flight Justin wakes up with him plastered against his chest, just like he has the last three mornings, the early morning sun lighting Adam’s hair up gold, and this time Justin doesn’t resist the urge to run a hand through it. It’s as soft as it looks, and he lets his fingers trail through it slowly, savoring every moment of it, knowing even as he does that it’s a terrible idea. Adam hums happily, keeping his eyes closed but pressing into Justin’s touch, letting his arm slide a little further around Justin’s stomach. 

“Sorry,” whispers Justin, starting to move his hand away. “You can go back to sleep.” 

“Don’t stop,” murmurs Adam against his chest, so Justin lets his fingers move again, wondering why it has to be now that this is finally starting, right when everything else is ending. 

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, falling in and out of consciousness, Adam’s hair soft against his fingers and breath warm against his chest. He only pulls away when he feels Adam begin to trace the ridges of his ribs, gentle and perfect and too much. 

“We shouldn’t,” says Justin. “I can’t- not now. Not when you’re leaving in six hours. Not when-” He stops, swallows, wills his voice not to break. “Not when I don’t know when the next time I see you in person will be.” 

“Yeah,” says Adam, pulling himself into a sitting position, his back to Justin. “Yeah, I know.” 

“I’m sorry,” says Justin. Adam, for once, is silent. Once again, Justin loses track of how long they stay like that. 

Finally, Adam speaks again. “I like- I really fucking love you, you know that, right?” 

Justin’s not sure if the noise he makes is a laugh or a choked off sob. It might be both. “Yeah man, I know. I love you too.” He thinks his heart might burst out of his chest. Four years wasn’t enough. He doesn’t know why he thought two more months was going to make anything better. “We should probably get ready to go, huh?” 

“Yeah,” says Adam, getting to his feet and shaking his head as if to clear it. “I’m just gonna go take a quick shower.” He turns back to Justin with a smile, and if it weren’t for how well Justin knows him, or the fact that he’s sure he looks exactly the same, he might not have noticed how shiny his eyes are, or the slight shake in his jaw. “You want to hand me my glasses?” 

Justin hands them to him wordlessly, and watches as he collects his things for the shower and slips out into the hallway. Adam doesn’t look back, and Justin tries not to read anything into it. 

*** 

When Ransom and Holster had been frogs, they'd gotten completely plastered at a kegster and, amidst shouts of support from the girl's volleyball team, made out in the middle of the living room. It took them almost a week to get up the nerve to talk about it, but when they did, they were on the same page - it had been fun, they'd both been much more into it than they'd expected to be, but they were freshmen in college with three and a half more years of playing on the same team ahead of them, and they'd rather just stay friends than risk messing it up by adding something new. 

So they put it aside. It was easier than Ransom thought it would be - he was attracted to Holster, yes, more than he liked to think about, but they were best friends first and foremost, so he forced himself to not think about the attraction, not think about the kiss, not think about the twinge in his gut every time he played wingman at yet another kegster. Holster was the best friend he'd ever had, so he shoved his feelings away, dated girls, dated boys, firmly told everyone that asked that they were just friends, and pretended it didn't bother him. 

And now, suddenly, it’s too late. He's got his first team meeting for the Stanford hockey team, Adam’s getting on a plane to go 2500 miles away, and somehow, just like the past four years, all they have are reasons why they shouldn't be together. 

"You're gonna keep seeing other people, right?" asks Justin. He's sitting cross legged on his bed while Adam shoves his last few things into his suitcase. 

Adam looks up. "Do you want me to?" 

Justin shrugs. He looks down, picking at a ball of lint stuck to his blanket. "I don't want you to feel like you're waiting for me or something." 

"You say that like I'd mind." 

Justin doesn't know what to say to that. "Are you sure I can't drive you to the airport?" 

"You've got your team meeting," says Adam, finally pulling the zipper completely closed on his suitcase and getting to his feet. "I'm fine taking a cab. Are you going to keep seeing other people?" 

"Shouldn't we?" 

"What's the point?" 

"It's four years, don't you think you might find someone you like better than me?" 

Adam snorts, crossing the room to where Justin is sitting and pulling him up into a hug. "Like that's possible." 

Justin chokes down a lump in his throat. "You're gonna miss your flight if you don't hurry." 

Adam holds on for a moment longer before finally pulling away. "I'll see you at Thanksgiving," he says, pressing a kiss to Justin's forehead. 

"Don't say that, it makes me think October." 

"Alright, then I'll see you in November," says Adam with a laugh, leaning down to pick up his bag. "Maybe sooner. I'll tell you once I know if we're playing the Sharks here or not." 

"I love you," says Justin one last time, because it's true. 

"I love you, too," says Adam. 

Adam looks back before he shuts the door behind him. 

**Author's Note:**

> german translations
> 
> “What was that, Darling?”
> 
> “You love Justin, right?”
> 
> Amelia smiles. “Of course, dear. He’s the son I wish I had.”
> 
> *
> 
> “Have you told him how you feel yet?” Katja asks Holster with a grin, picking up with cutting board of mushrooms she’s been chopping and adding them to the pan of diced bacon that Holster’s been watching. “Morning, Justin,” she adds, winking at Ransom.
> 
> “We're just friends, K,” says Holster, his cheeks flushing red as he waves Katja away. “That's all.”


End file.
